


Gondoling

by tehta



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Counterfeit Hats, Gen, More Pratchett-esque than Usual, Public Transportation, Undercover Mission, illegal racing, puns
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-03
Updated: 2014-11-03
Packaged: 2018-02-24 00:53:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2562092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tehta/pseuds/tehta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If I told you that the romantic word "gondola" has its origins in the equally romantic (and tragic) Elven city of Gondolin, would you believe me?</p><p>No? Perhaps this series of vignettes will convince you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Gondolin

“So, Ecthelion,” said Penlod, “we have a problem. Lord Turgon has decided to ban all beasts of burden from his new city.”

“Really? Why?”

“He will not have his pristine white streets befouled by their leavings.”

“I… see. But then, how are we to transport goods?"

“How, indeed? Fortunately, I have a counter-suggestion: what about developing an efficient road-cleaning method, instead? Like, say, flushing all thoroughfares with water several times a day? Would that work?”

“Well.” Ecthelion frowned. “With all the reported volcanic activity, we should have enough water pressure. But such a process would turn roads into shallow canals, and what would the pedestrians do then? Wait it out? Get their feet wet? Quickly leap aboard conveniently portable flat-bottomed boats?”

“Boats! Ecthelion, you are a genius!”

“Hardly! I mean, I have no idea what you— Ah! You propose to make the canals permanent? And use them for transport?”

“Yes. But not just for transport: for decoration. Just imagine it! Those glittering waterways would reflect all the marvels of the city, doubling their effect. As for the boats… our shipbuilders are sure to get bored, away from the sea. They would surely welcome a chance to craft vessels of incomparable beauty. And the whole world would envy the glorious boats of Gondolin. Our… gondolas!”


	2. Building Gondolin

“So,” said Penlod.

“So,” said Ecthelion.

The two captains stared at the freshly-painted terrain model covering the map-room table. It was a true work of art, a vision in soft green and grey. And, like all the best art, it provoked disquiet in its viewers.

“So,” repeated Penlod, “as you can see, our future city is to stand on a hill. Not in a valley, as previously reported.”

“To be fair,” said Ecthelion, “this particular hill does appear to be located in a valley… Well, in a caldera. The hill must be a resurgent dome, an unusual, but not undocumented, geological feature.”

“Something the first surveyors might have noted on their maps,” said Penlod. “It would only have taken a moment, and now… You do realize we will have to redraft all the building plans?”

“I do.” Ecthelion leaned over the table, frowning. “And it will not be simple. We will have to move the palace complex to the highest site, replace the road grid with something more suited to uneven terrain, and as for the canals, we may have to forego—”

“Actually, Lord Turgon specifically asked us to keep the canals. ‘I know you can do it, lads,’ he told me. With that hearty laugh he has been practicing recently.”

“I wish I shared his gratifying confidence in our abilities.”

“Oh, I doubt it is genuine. I suspect it is all part of that new motivational leadership style he has taken up, on Lord Finrod’s suggestion.”

“I… see.” Ecthelion’s eyes roamed the model. “You know, a few canals could be managed easily enough. Our hill may have a steep, comfortingly defensible base, but the top is not very pointy. Indeed, there are many flat areas.”

Penlod nodded thoughtfully. “Not all at the same level, though.”

“No. But perhaps… Three levels should cover most of it, no? A large low level all around, a middle level through the centre and over to that edge here, and high areas there and… there?”

“I see. You are suggesting that each level could have its own water network? Connected to the others with elevator platforms, for the transfer of goods and passengers?”

“Right!” Ecthelion straightened, his eyes bright. “I had not considered transfers, but yes, we could use hydraulics to lift goods… or the boats themselves. We could even build locks.”

“But locks are so slow, and so… industrial-looking.”

“Practical, though.”

“True… But what about adding some gently sloping one-way canals, for speedier downward travel? Just imagine how fine the gondolas would look, racing down a gracefully curving channel, throwing up clouds of crystalline droplets in their wake…”

“Racing through the city?” Ecthelion raised an eyebrow. “Would that not be dangerous?”

“I am sure people would behave sensibly enough. And if not… Surely our Guard would be on hand to… provide guidance? We could even add a new department: the Water Traffic Force. I imagine some of the Teleri would jump at the chance to join it."

"Well..." Ecthelion considered this. "Recruitment is always a problem..."

 


	3. Idril

“But, Papa—”

“Itarillë, sunshine, you must see that— Oh look, there is your aunt. Irissë!”

Irissë, who had been crossing the Palace garden with hurried, purposeful strides, seemed rather startled to hear her name called. Still, she approached her brother willingly enough. “Hello, you two. Nice evening for a stroll.”

“Quite. Look, Irissë, I want your opinion on something.”

“Really?” Irissë raised both eyebrows. “I am astounded. Only this morning, you rejected all my opinions, especially those concerning the guards’ summer unifo—”

“For the last time, Irissë, few people are comfortable in tunics that short, and as for codpieces, they are entirely too— beside the point. Which is that Itarillë insists on taking the express gondola down the Way of Flowing Waters almost every time she leaves the Palace.”

Irissë’s eyebrows went up again. “Really, Itarillë?”

“Well, it is by far the fastest way to reach the Lower City.”

“Yes, it probably is,” Turukáno admitted, “but it is also the most dange—”

“Let me handle this, brother.” Irissë smoothed the folds of her unusually shabby, dark cloak and turned towards her niece. “My sweet girl, surely you realize that particular gondola is… how can I put it…  it is *public transport*! Open to all, and full of, I do not know, Teleri and artisans and their livestock.”

“So?”

“So? You are Finwë’s great-grandchild! You cannot mix with the common rabble. You have responsibilities!”

“Indeed I do,” said Itarillë, chin raised high. “And those responsibilities include understanding how our people live.”

“Ugh.” Irissë grimaced. “I can tell you how they live. In boredom and squalor.”

“If that is the case, then surely it is our duty to alleviate these awful conditions. Is it not, Papa?”

“Of course, my little gleam of light. But that is, again, beside the point.” Turukáno fixed Irissë with a significant look, willing her to understand. “What concerns me is the danger. The speed of that boat—”

“Is nothing to write to Valinor about,” said Irissë, meeting his look head-on. “Those public clunkers are build for capacity, not performance. To get any real acceleration you need something more streamlined, like my— like Egalmoth’s fancy runabout. Only less gem-encrusted; all those decorations increase friction.”

Clearly, a more detailed explanation was called for. “Irissë, flower, you would not speak of such matters so lightly if you had read the weekly accident reports I receive from the Water Traffic Force.”

“Oh, Papa!” Itarillë sighed. “I have read those reports, and they clearly state that very few gondola accidents involve public boats, and that the vast majority occur during unlicensed night-time racing… Actually,“ she continued, frowning prettily, “I wonder why the Force claims to be powerless to stop that dangerous practice. I mean, they do seem to have detailed, accurate information on all its disasters.”

Irissë laughed. “Well, you know what they say: the WTF is always first at the site of any accident!”

“I should hope so,” said Turukáno. “I mean, that is their job.”

Irissë laughed again, louder. “Oh, you are too droll, brother. But that reminds me — I should go. I have an appointment.”

“At this late hour? With whom?”

“With Voronwë, of the Fountain. We are… sparring.”

“Are you?” The slight pause filled Turukáno with dark suspicion. “Do I know this Voronwë?”

"Certainly… By name, at least. As an officer of the WTF, he is responsible for many of those reports you read so carefully.”

“A minor officer of the Guard? Irissë, you cannot possibly—”

“I can, and will, do whatever I— Oh. You think I am… trysting with him?” Irissë’s expression hovered between amusement and distaste. “Honestly, Turukáno. I have standards. I mean, the man is not even a passable smith! But, regardless of his flaws, I should not keep him waiting. Not longer than an hour or so, anyway.” She turned back towards her niece. “Itarillë, before I leave: please do reconsider your transportation choices. The Flowing Waters shuttle is no place for a lady of your lineage.”

“Aunt Irissë, I really—”

"But if you find your father’s advice as dreary as I do, then I would like to propose a — what do you call them, Turukáno? — ah, a compromise. One that would allow you to mix with the peasants at no cost to our House’s reputation. It is quite simple: you must disguise yourself as one of them!”

Having made this suggestion, she beamed triumphantly.

“Disguise myself…?” said Itarillë. “But how—”

“It is very easy, actually. You just have to wear horrid, drab clothes, and, possibly — no, in your case definitely — a wig. And to speak crudely at all times, in Sindarin, of course. Which has an additional benefit, since you know what they say: actions performed while speaking Sindarin simply do not count.”

Now that was going too far. Turukáno found his voice. “Honestly, Irissë! Who says that? Apart from you, I mean.”

“Celegorm, obviously. And Curufin.”

“Because you taught it to them, and they found it amusing. Not to mention useful, since Eru knows they have plenty of reasons to disavow their actions, starting with—” But this was neither the time nor the place to get into those sad stories. Turukáno turned towards his daughter. “Please do not listen to your aunt, sunshine.”

“Too late!” said Irissë. “She has already heard me. Think about it, Itarillë!”

And with that final, worrying suggestion, she flounced off. Turukáno and Itarillë watched her disappear among the trees, her brownish cloak sweeping the ground behind her.

Itarillë spoke first. “Father,” she said. “I, too, would like to propose a compromise.”

“Would you?”

“Yes. It is this: I could promise to refrain from running around the whole city in an unconvincing—and probably deeply offensive—Sindarin costume. However, in return for this sacrifice, I would like you, Father, to stop lecturing me on the dangers of gondolas.”

Turukáno considered this suggestion. Was she in earnest?

“I believe,” his little girl continued, “that Aunt mentioned something about… crude language? Well, as it happens, I do know some salty Telerin curses. I am sure that—”

“You have a deal, my sunshine,” said Turukáno.

 


	4. Voronwe

“So,” said Ecthelion.

“So, said Voronwë.

“So,” repeated Ecthelion, “I expect that you understand all too well why I have called you into my office.”

It was true that Voronwë could venture a guess; several guesses, in fact. Unfortunately, his captain’s neutral countenance offered no clue as to which one might prove correct, and this was clearly one of those rare situations where gambling was unlikely to result in either fun or profit. He decided to play it safe.

“No, my Lord,” he said. “I do not.”

Ecthelion’s calm expression did not waver, but something about him — a change in the angle of his shoulders, perhaps — suggested a profound disappointment. He sat motionless and silent for a few seconds, letting this sink in, before reaching for a roll of paper and tossing it across the desk.

“Read this, please. Out loud.”

Voronwë did not need to unroll the sheet to recognize his own report on the art theft. Well, that was not too bad, all things considered! He smoothed out the paper and began.

“It was a fine spring morning on the second day after the festival of the Flowers. The decorative wreaths were mostly gone in the way of all such fleeting things, but the cherry trees in the Southern orchard were only just approaching their peak. The sky was cerulean shading to teal, and the sun put me in mind of a bowl of—”

“Please stop.” Ecthelion was staring up at the ceiling as if in silent appeal to Manwë. “Honestly, the things they teach you at the Guard Academy, these days! Now, why don’t you skip all thie background information, and find the part where the actual Guard work begins. I imagine it will be wherever you encounter the verb ‘proceed’ used in its wordy sense.”

Voronwë had long noted that his Captain’s soul lacked poetry. Perhaps that was why he preferred music? In any case, he was the one in charge here. Voronwë found his place, and read on.

“I was proceeding up the Road of Pomps towards the Place of the Gods, when I became aware that one of the artists who ply their wares in stalls along the sides of the Road was screaming. After an intense and rapid investigation, I determined that she was screaming the words, ‘Stop thief’ and that these words were directed at a second woman, tall and clad in a shabby brown cloak, and carrying a large silver-hued bust of one of the Ainur. Possibly Ulmo. I could not make a precise evaluation, since this second woman was rapidly disappearing into the distance up the hill. Therefore, I gave chase to the perpetuator—”

“Perpetrator.”

“What? I mean—I beg your pardon, my Lord?”

“The slang word ‘perp’ stands for perpetrator. Not perpetuator.”

“Are you sure, my Lord? I mean, she was certainly perpetuating a crime. No way could it have kept going without her.”

“But, at the same time—” Ecthelion paused, and rubbed his temple. “No, on second thoughts, it is hardly my place to constrain the linguistic innovations my men choose to perpetuate. Please, do… proceed.”

Voronwë read on. “Therefore, I gave chase to the per— son of interest, in the direction of the Square, where she veered rapidly to the left, onto the Way of Running Waters. Once established there, she leapt into a light racing gondola, and speeded off down the canal. I was momentarily nonplussed, but a plan soon formed in my mind. Approaching a nearby gondoleier-for-hire, I officially commandeered his vehicle in the name of the Gua—”

“If I might interrupt? You say ‘commandeered’, as if it had been an official process. And yet this here complaint,” said Ecthelion, brandishing a second sheet of paper,  “made by the man himself, seems to imply that you simply pushed him off his vessel, straight into the water.”

“I am afraid he did not understand my official statement of commandeering—’

“Because no such thing exists.”

"But I have been— I mean, it was a desperate time. My quarry was disappearing downstream, and of course a gondola is faster when it carries fewer people. And crime is a terrible blight on our Flower of the Plain."

“Yes, it is certainly one of our problems. Go on.”

"…I officially commandeered his vehicle in the name of the Guard. I then assumed captaincy of said vessel, and continued my pursuit over water. The chase was brief and exciting, but ultimately fruitless, as, upon reaching the end of the canal, I lost all velocity, and also all ability to participate in the chase. Fortunately, the resulting commotion attracted the attention of several bystanders, and they were able to carry out a citizen’s arrest of the thief, who—”

“Who was, apparently, very easy to apprehend, since she was disabled by an inability to stop laughing. Having just watched you crash into the shops at the end of the canal and knock yourself out on its edge.”

“Apparently.” Voronwë had heard much the same story from those who has been conscious enough to notice such details. It had rather upset him at the time. “Of course, laughing at another’s misfortune is exactly the sort of mean-spirited behaviour I would expect from a member of the criminal classes, my Lord.”

“Well, it is true that not everyone was laughing, I will give you that. And as proof, I would like to, additionally, give you this.” Ecthelion tossed over another roll of paper. “Read it out as well, please.”

Voronwë regarded the document with suspicion. It was definitely not one of his reports: the paper felt cheap, and the writing itself was formatted as an unpoetic list.

“One four-person gondola,” he began. “One oar. Three canal tiles. A gondolier’s hat. A fruit stand. Several boxes of apples. A box of cherries. A melon. A bookshelf. Several volumes of the comic novel ‘Manwë’s Pants’. A valuable atlas of edible fungi. A silk robe lined with velvet. And two elaborate hairstyles.”

“Total value: around seven thousand Turgons,” said Ecthelion. “And those are just the items destroyed during your escapade. The retrieval of assorted undestroyed items has cost us a few more hundred, and now some bystanders are requesting to be reimbursed for ‘severe injuries to personal dignity’, whatever that means.” He leaned forward. “Now, of course, this is still less costly than your chase down the aqueduct, last winter, or even your accident in the Potters’ Quarter, during the harvest festival, but— Voronwë, look at me. What do you have to say for yourself?”

“Well…” Voronwë considered this question. Should he offer to pay out of his salary? No, Ecthelion was just the sort to take him up on his suggestion. A different approach was called for. “My lord,” he said, “my methods might be unorthodox, but surely you agree that they yield results!”

Ecthelion’s eyes widened minutely. “Seriously, Voronwë? That is your defence? After draining the Guard’s finances, and turning us into the laughing stock of the criminal element— No, of the whole city? After inspiring Salgant himself to write a song asking why every boat you board has an alarming tendency to crash? No, it just will not do.” He paused for a moment of solemn silence. “Voronwë, it grieves me to say this, but I believe that you must leave the Water Traffic Force.”

Voronwë felt as if he had, once again, been dropped into very cold water. It took him a moment to regain his breath. “You— you mean to kick me off the Guard? But… my Lord!”

“Calm yourself. You would not need to leave the Guard. I was thinking of a transfer. To one of the watchtowers in the hills, perhaps.”

“A watchtower? Please, no, anything but that, Lord Ecthelion. Those postings are so bo— I mean, there is nothing to do out there but, well, keep watch."

“It would not be forever.”

“A single rotation would be enough. I would return to the city a broken, insane man.”

“Really.” Ecthelion raised a skeptical eyebrow. “And how would this insanity manifest itself, do you think? Would you, perhaps, develop a tendency to race up and down the city streets, destroying private property wherever you went?” He sat back, and smiled slightly. “Strangely enough, I feel like I am fully prepared to cope with this particular tragic outcome.”

Once Ecthelion smiled like that, with irony, it was all over. Voronwë hung his head, and considered the pathetic future that was soon to be his lot.

“But there may be another possibility.” Ecthelion’s clear voice cut through his self-pity. “The other morning, while chatting with Glorfindel, I brought up our ongoing inability to identify the organizers of the illegal gondola races. And he had an interesting idea: he thought that we might be able to infiltrate those circles. Well, actually…” Ecthelion sighed. “He offered to do so himself, stating that it sounded like fun. However, he is clearly far too recognizable, and too well-known as a paragon of the Law. You, on the other hand, with your reputation as a reckless gondolier… You should fit right in.”

For a few moments, Voronwë could only stare. Was this a test? Had his… side-interest been discovered?

“Me?” he asked at last. “You believe I would fit in at the floating racetrack, my Lord? It… might be possible. However—”

“No more excuses, Voronwë,” Ecthelion broke in, crisp once again. “I know lying is distasteful, but do try to appreciate the opportunity I am offering. A chance to not just salvage your career in the Guard, but even, perhaps, advance it! Should you solve the mystery, that is.”

Voronwë swallowed. It truly was a test, then: a test of personal loyalty, set by cruel fate. The promotion he had long desired lay within his grasp, but at what cost?

“Perhaps,” he said slowly, and so quietly that he barely heard his own voice, “it might be best if I tendered my resignation.”

Ecthelion sat up at that, a spark of approval in his eye. “What an excellent idea! Leaving the guard under a dark cloud can only strengthen your cover-story.”

And Voronwë found that he could not bear to disappoint him again.

 


	5. Turgon

“Good afternoon, Lord Turgon. May I come in?”

That harmonious voice was unmistakable. “Of course, Ecthelion,” said Turukáno, rolling up the letter he had been reading. “So, what brings you to my off--”

Here, he had to pause to fully take in the sight before him: one of his most reliable captains, wearing his usual unobtrusive, immaculate finery, as well as his usual neutral expression--and sporting an enormous, and definitely unusual, black eye. The overall effect was… surprisingly disreputable.

But it was rude to stare at what had to be a sparring injury. Turukáno collected himself. “I assume that you are here to report on the latest developments in the Guard's inquiry into illegal gondola racing."

“Yes, exactly, my Lord.”

“Well?” Turukáno sat forward. “Have you caught the ringleaders? Your latest report spoke of an undercover investigation. In the most hopeful terms.”

“I expect it did. However...” Ecthelion’s military bearing slackened minutely. “There have been some… new developments.”

“That does not sound very promising.”

“No. Although, the end result may well-- Anyway, the first development concerns our undercover agent, Voronwë. As you will know from my reports, he has been able to infiltrate the racing community with astonishing, commendable ease, and is now a member of their trusted inner circle.”

“Well, then, he should be able to tell you all you wish to know.”

Ecthelion grimaced. “Able, yes, but not willing. When I asked him for details, he-- Well, he appears to be having a crisis of conscience, revolving around issues of personal trust. And I must say, I cannot help thinking that--”

“You mean he is refusing to name names?”

“Indeed, he is.”

“Cannot you force him to?”

Ecthelion's eyes widened. “How? I mean, I suppose I could demote him, perhaps to sewer duty, or even throw him in jail. But such disincentives would surely have no effect on a man of principle. Which he is now revealed to be.”

"Nevertheless, he is refusing to do his job. Surely some sort of punishment--"

“No, my Lord, if anyone is to be punished here, it should be I. Since I am the one who assigned him to this task, without fully considering the ethical implications.”

Turukáno sighed. As a man burdened with many enthusiastically amoral relatives, he often found Ecthelion's more conscientious attitudes refreshing; heartening, even. But at other times... At other times they were helpful in a different way: by reminding him that pragmatism had its benefits.

“Never mind that, then," he said. "Tell me instead how you plan to continue your investigation. Will you be assigning a second agent, someone whose moral fibre is… more flexible?”

“Actually, I have decided to continue it myself. Not undercover, though,” said Ecthelion, as if that were not obvious. “I have simply read through all the relevant reports, searching for patterns. This has allowed me to get an idea of race routes, and of the sort of evenings when they are likely to occur: ones when innocent citizens are likely to stay indoors, due to depressing weather."

“Very well. And how do you plan to put these theories to use?"

“I already have, to.. interesting effect." Ecthelion blinked, and touched his swollen eye. "It happened last night, when, judging the cloud cover to be perfect, I set out to patrol likely locations. As I was proceeding down-- I mean to say, as I passed the Lesser Market, I caught a brief glimpse of a speeding gondola at the other end of the square. I knew that particular race route would lead to the main canal in the Potters' Quarter, so I quickly ordered that waterway to be drained."

"You can do that?"

"Yes, I merely sounded a pre-established signal that-- Oh, you mean the mechanics of it, my Lord? Yes, of course. It's all part of the anti-flooding rapid drainage system we installed half a century ago. If you will recall, I gave a three-hour presentation before--"

"Yes, yes, of course," said Turukáno quickly. There had been so many presentations. "Glad to hear it works in practice. So, what happened next?"

“Next, I ran to the affected area, where I quickly discovered that a race-gondola had come to ground in the drained canal behind the novelty mug emporium.”

“Really! But I suppose the gondolier was long gone?"

"Actually, no. The gondolier, a scruffy-looking woman, was standing beside her boat, staring at it disdainfully. So, I approached her, and informed her that I was placing her under arrest.”

Finally, a result! Turukáno sat forward. “We must question her! Where is she now?”

“In the Palace, I believe." Ecthelion drew in a deep breath, then met Turukáno’s gaze squarely. "My Lord, it was Lady Irissë.”

“Irissë? Scruffy-looking? That does not seem very--" And yet, even as he spoke, Turukáno recalled certain odd outfits--and behaviors--his sister had recently exhibited. “I take it you are quite sure?”

“I am, Lord Turgon,” said Ecthelion. "I must admit that the lady’s language threw me off at first. You see, she addressed me in the Sindarin dialect of Southern Vinyamar, using phrases I had never heard before, not even in the fishermen’s harbour. But then she threw back her ratty cloak, and I was-- I experienced a moment of confusion. Which is when she punched me in the face." Here, he touched his eye again. “It was definitely your sister, my Lord.”

“Very well, I believe you. So, what did the two of you do after this… altercation?”

“She ran off. I considered pursuit, but I decided that the sight of a senior guardsman chasing a member of the royal family through the star-lit streets, pausing only for the occasional brawl, could potentially undermine the respect in which our citizens hold their authority figures.”

“You might have a point there. The people do seem to find chases inordinately amusing: low comedy is full of such scenes.” Turukáno sat back. “Besides, your effort would have been quite pointless, since, even if you managed to catch her, you could hardly arrest your King’s own sister.”

“My Lord? But, surely--” Ecthelion paused abruptly, and took a deep breath. “Indeed, I do agree that an arrest would serve no useful purpose. However, speaking to the lady could.”

“You wish to interview Irissë?”

“I will attempt to, yes, though I doubt she will be willing to reveal the identities of her acco-- of her acquaintances. Still, even if she chooses not to discuss these people, she might be able to influence them: to encourage them to desist. And you, my Lord,” Ecthelion continued, “might be able to influence her to do so.”

“Influence my sister? Why, yes, of course. What could be more natural.” Turukáno rubbed at his temples. Poor Irissë: she was a woodland flower, ill-suited for city life. And yes, she had hinted that the current situation was making her unhappy--or, at least, bored--but he had never expected that her distress would drive her to a life of crime. “I will speak to her tonight… Well, soon, anyway.”

**Author's Note:**

> 0\. This story was originally written in an attempt to fill a bingo card during the Silm Readalong on tumblr. (The chapter titles refer to the bingo squares.) It was meant to be a series of double-drabbles, but it got out of hand rather quickly.  
> 1\. The resulting story may feel a bit episodic. But I assure you that there is a plan, and even a dramatic arc! Also, as I explained to my beta, this is not a story about any specific character, but about an ongoing struggle to channel the forces of chaos into something more orderly, underlined by the persistent metaphor of channeling water into canals. The characters represent various aspects of this eternal struggle.


End file.
